


Work of Art

by fabricdragon



Series: How Moriarty Met Moran [18]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Allergies, Assassination Attempt(s), Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Dubious Consent, Fake Character Death, Food Issues, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Jim Moriarty, Post-Reichenbach, Stalking, Tumblr Prompt, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:00:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25428061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/pseuds/fabricdragon
Summary: Jim Moriarty was being stalked- hunted- by an expert assassin who had gotten too close...Luckily, he already had a contingency plan to fake his death, but would that be good enough?
Relationships: Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty
Series: How Moriarty Met Moran [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1069010
Comments: 66
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpeculativeCorvid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpeculativeCorvid/gifts), [InnerSpectrum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerSpectrum/gifts), [mickie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickie/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Sláinte](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22884352) by [SpeculativeCorvid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpeculativeCorvid/pseuds/SpeculativeCorvid). 



Moriarty was, to put it frankly, beginning to be a bit spooked. He was clearly being stalked- hunted- by an expert assassin, and whoever it was had gotten far too close several times over: His planning, wits and ability to react fast had saved him several times now, but...the only reason they hadn't gotten him the last time was because ‘Richard Brook’ had been too public.

So whoever they were they weren’t going to make it obvious he was being assassinated…

That said the number of near miss ‘accidents’ was increasing…

Luckily, he already had a contingency plan to fake his death.

…

A few months later; Jim Moriarty was officially dead, Sherlock was off pruning the dead wood off his network, and Mycroft was busy fighting for his political life…

And James Maighdlin was happily setting up shop in New York as an Art Gallery owner.

Art was such a lovely front for smuggling and money laundering, and besides you could get people to pay the most ridiculous prices for art if you just sold it correctly…

And if there was one thing Jim had always been able to do it was read someone and figure out how to offer them what they wanted…

It was two days- well a day and a few hours, it being rather late- to the opening gala and Jim was walking through planning out the final hanging order- most of it was done, of course, but there was one room where the… the art just wasn’t FLOWING right, damn it! So there were paintings on the floor against the wall and he was adjusting the lights to be dimmer or brighter-  _ maybe if it was dim with just the art spotlighted? _ \- and he was standing there frowning at blank walls trying to figure out how to make it look right…

And suddenly he was fighting someone who was too fast, and too strong, and even when he managed to hit him it didn't do any good. He kicked at the alarm control box, but then the attacker got a hand over his mouth and nose and black spots started dimming the gallery walls... and the voice in the back of his head that ran calculations and figured out impossible solutions went quiet…

And with a slam that knocked the wind out of him entirely he was up against the wall- held up by a hand around his throat and both arms pinned over his head- but he could breathe again, barely, past the grip on his throat...

And there was a mouth covering his…

And a hand in his hair, and the hand moved from his throat…

And then it was all gone and Jim was gasping for air until the black spots receded and… it was just dimmed spotlights on gallery walls and he was alone?

He tugged, but his hands wouldn't move… he twisted his head to look up and saw a knife hilt buried in the wall, through his jacket and shirt sleeves…

Slowly and carefully he maneuvered his hands through the cuffs- well the one, the other was too tight and he had to pull his own knife and make a small cut to slip his hand free.

The Security service was calling his phone- finally. In truth it probably wasn't that long it just felt like eternity, and he told them someone had hidden in the building and tried to rob him but everything was alright now…

He’d file a police report in the morning…

And he hung up and looked around again at the blank walls with their circles of light like spotlights… and his own jacket and button down hanging empty in the middle of one.

_ Why am I not dead? The alarm? _ Jim shakily went into the office and collapsed. He kept a change of clothes in there- and somewhat more secretly he kept a gun, a pile of cash, and a new passport- and he pulled on a shirt and a blazer and made his way back to his flat…

_ My apartment _ , he reminded himself firmly,  _ my apartment. _

Wondering if he would be killed before he made it home.

Wondering if he would be killed in his sleep.

He hadn't even meant to GO to sleep, but once the adrenaline left his system he had no choice but to lie down.

_ Who the hell had that been, and why am I alive? _

It was as his mind was finally drifting to sleep that the incident replayed behind his eyelids and he realized…

_ He kissed me. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artwork, Gallery openings... and potential assassins

Jim woke up the next morning with a sore throat, an aching back… well, almost everything ached, really: on the plus side, he woke up. 

He staggered to the bathroom and tried to ignore the traces of blood in his urine; hopefully it was just the remains of a kidney stone that got shaken loose and nothing serious- still, he’d certainly had worse after a beating He peeled off the pajamas and had a good look at himself…

His face wasn't bruised badly- a few “fingerprint” bruises on his jaw and his nose- his torso and legs had some rather impressive bruises, but the bruises around his wrists were downright spectacular- by contrast the bruising around his throat was minimal. He took some paracetamol- forced himself to think of it as Tylenol- and contemplated concealer and clothing...and whether he was going to stay in New York or run. He hated running. 

He considered carefully while he got a cup of much needed coffee: he didn't KNOW this assassin was connected with the earlier- Pre Reichenbach- attempts, but he couldn't imagine there were too many people out there that good…

Which just raised the question again of why he wasn't dead.

_And he’d kissed me._

Which was… pretty damn creepy.

After he was on his second cup of coffee Jim had to admit that it was also spectacularly hot- having something that deadly and that unstoppable kiss you and leave you breathing…

“But then I’ve always been a bit odd,” he sighed and stared at some of his artwork- it tended to the macabre after all. “So,” he asked the raven painting hanging over his breakfast table, “Was that just counting coup, and he’s going to kill me next time? Is it a message? Is he a rapist? What the hell does he want?” the raven didn't answer, of course- _be convenient if it did… of course with my luck it would just say ‘Nevermore’ or something_.

It showed the state of his nerves that he jumped when the phone rang, but he thought he kept his voice steady as he answered: it was his gallery manager Michael- _‘call me Mike, please!’_.

“It's a striking piece, i agree, but i don’t think the rest of the paintings will go with it, sir: do you have some other works that are a bit more… harmonious? Were you getting some from the same artist?”

Jim tried to make the words make sense and finally just sighed, “Mike? I’m not fully caffeinated yet, can you… try that again?”

“The new art piece? The jacket and dagger? You don't have a plaque up yet…”

Jim flashed back to the image of his jacket and shirt hanging impaled on a dagger in the middle of a spotlight and had to stifle the (only slightly hysterical) laugh. “Oh! Oh yes… ah… i just wasn't happy with the way that Curtis’ paintings looked in the space, and was trying to see if maybe it was more suitable to another display.”

“You had said that about Curtis,” Mike agreed, “His work is a bit… mainstream- it will sell, but it doesn't have the ‘Wow!’ factor for a gallery open.”

Jim sighed, “Yes, i know… we can’t go too heavily on the ordinary…”

Jim looked up at one of the paintings he’d done- working through his own trauma and memories and slowly smirked. “I… I have some artwork but honestly Mike? I’m biased because I know the artist. if i bring it in, can you give me your honest impression about whether it would work with that room? Don’t tell me it's good enough if it isn't, either.”

“Sure?”

“Be in in two hours, ok?”

Jim got together the assorted canvases- Acrylic and mixed media, and yes a few featured clothing: he picked out the ones he felt might work and went back to the gallery.

He asked Mike to give him a minute and he walked into the back gallery room from last night- this morning. Curtis’ paintings had been taken out and it was empty except for a bench that had been moved in… and his shirt and jacket still pinned in the one spotlight. _It really DID look like an art piece…_ The only evidence of the fight was a smudge from his shoe on the wall and the…’art’.

It had the off kilter feeling of a really good horror story, and as much as Jim loved a horror story he usually preferred being the monster.

He put his canvases leaning up against the wall and stepped out. 

“I’m serious, Mike: this guy is an unknown, and his art has to be marketable to be on display for the opening- no favors.”

Mike went in and Jim got himself a cup of tea and some biscui- cookies.

After a while Mike came out; he looked thoughtful. “Ok, James? First of all… uh… is… your friend getting therapy? Because he needs therapy.”

Jim strangled his reflexive response of glaring or stabbing the man and smiled instead- careful to keep it a friendly smile and not the one people ran away from. “That IS part of his therapy, Mike: art as therapy to deal with trauma.”

Mike brightened up, “oh! That's gonna sell: that's a marketing hook right there.”

“So what do you think?”

“I think we can use it- it goes well with the installation. Is that the same artist?”

Jim tried to keep a straight face as he answered, “that piece is actually a collaborative work between the canvas artist and another man, so… yes and no.”

He nodded, “Well, i picked out the pieces i felt gave a strong 'story line' with the installation you started with. It's very much darker than the other artists, but… sometimes that's what sells, and we can put a trigger warning on the room and it will intrigue people… can you get me the information to set up the plaques?”

Jim nodded slowly, “show me which ones you picked out and I’ll get the information for you…”

Jim sat in his office typing up pretentious titles- or at least intriguing ones- and descriptions. He left the jacket with ‘Untitled’ and wrote it up as ‘a collaborative work covering themes of decisions, feeling trapped, and the constraints of society’.

He still didn’t know if he should run; _of course the assassin found me here- running might not help..._

…

Jim kept the smile on his face as he moved through the party, circulating and trying to keep an eye on everything. By a stroke of insane luck- that Jim hadn't even manufactured!- one of a rather prestigious art magazine’s people was here. She was looking around and asking questions and Jim had to stay fairly close to her because one of the artists was just horrible around women: great artist, lousy person.

The gallery was crowded- not packed, but they were having to make the lesser customers and ticket holders wait in line to come in- which would make for a good buzz locally, Jim supposed. 

It being New York, the crowd was predictably dressed- mostly in black, with a few people here and there standing out in anything but- and equally predictably it was mostly pretty people: gallery opens were places to be SEEN after all, so you got the ‘almost celebrities’ as well as the serious buyers.

It made for good photos anyway.

Jim could only hope that the assassin had either decided not to kill him, or was still adverse to killing him publicly, because with this crowd? Unless the man was notable looking he could hide in the crowd easily.

Jim had, in fact, seen four people already who moved like combatants: two women -and he was fairly certain both of them were too short to be his assassin even if he was somehow wrong about the gender- and two men. One of the men was Mediterranean in looks- swarthy perhaps might be the term used- and one was… well he could be Irish? He had reddish brown hair and fair skin anyway.

Both were within the possible height range.

Assuming his assassin even came to the opening.

Jim’s attention was dragged back to the art journalist, who was asking about his artwork: “Yes,” he nodded, “Brendon is working through some trauma in art therapy- it’s their first showing in fact- but they didn't feel comfortable attending.” He’d used a variation on his birth name to sign the things after all- luckily his signature was mostly a scrawl and he could create a decent cover identity if he sold any of the pieces.

“Their work is very powerful,” she stood looking around and shivered, “not something I’d personally want in my living space, but...definitely a conversation piece.”

A few of the other attendees heard her- it being a small room- and the Mediterranean possible assassin made an agreeing noise, “Very much so, I’m buying ‘The Bridge’ myself… but its not something to go in a bedroom.”

Jim couldn't help but startle slightly at someone actually… buying? One of his works? _Was this the assassin? Was it just more stalking?_ For once Jim had no idea what to say and excused himself to get another glass of champagne…

Mike gave him a very pleased look, so he supposed it was going well, and the potentially problematic artist was leaving for the night, so Jim began to feel like he could circulate a bit more…

But it was hard to relax while he had to be ‘on’ and marketing, and it was harder to relax while he wondered if the assassin was here, if he had just sold him a piece of rather personal artwork, or if he was somewhere out there in the city.

By the end of the night they had easily made twice the sales they had expected, and half of ‘Brendon’s work’ had sold: including, apparently, his jacket.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> life is like a box of chocolates- is this a date?

_I haven’t blocked a door with furniture in decades._ Jim was unhappily putting loud furnishings in front of his entry door to give himself time to think, and cursing the fact that he’d cut so many connections. He was dragging the furniture around as quietly as he could because he hadn't gotten home from the gallery opening until nearly three in the morning, but he was too wired to even try to sleep.

He made another quick sweep of the apartment just out of nerves-still nothing obviously amiss- and went into the kitchen to get some tea.

“Let’s start from the assumption,” Jim talked it out as he went through the familiar motions, “That the assassin is the same one from London… in which case…” he sighed, “In which case I don't get it at all.”

He’d thought the London attempts were from the Iceman- trying to protect baby brother, and tidy up loose ends. _Wouldn't Holmes just call the CIA? Or if he wanted him badly enough, wouldn't the assassin just kill him here- what’s an international incident between friends._ Jim drummed his fingers waiting for the kettle, “It… could be another criminal syndicate? But most of them just don't have anyone that GOOD… “ _and it still doesn't explain why i’m still breathing._

He made his tea and got down his carefully hoarded shortbread…

There was a box of chocolates in his cabinet.

There was a box of EXPENSIVE chocolates in his cabinet.

There was a box of expensive chocolates in his cabinet THAT HE HADN’T PURCHASED!

Jim took the box down carefully- nothing blew up. He got the step stool and a flashlight and started going through the cabinets… nothing else seemed out of place…

He pulled on the dish gloves and VERY carefully opened the box of chocolates… It appeared to be straight from some fancy chocolatier, and had a little card tucked in that said “congratulations on the gallery opening” in what he was fairly certain was a salesclerk's handwriting.

Jim would sooner have kissed a cobra than so much as touch those chocolates with his bare hands, but he made note of the company- it was on the card and the box after all- and resolved to go ask if they knew who his ‘admirer’ was. 

Then he threw it out, and cursed the fact that he couldn't trust anything that wasn’t heated enough to destroy toxins in his entire apartment and had to search everything…

With a degree of alarm he checked his hidden stashes of weapons, money, and paperwork- but everything SEEMED intact…

 _Of course now I have to assume he got a look at any other paperwork in the place…and tried to get into my computers._ He wouldn't get anything useful from the computers of course- if the man was one of the world’s best computer hackers on top of being that good as an assassin there was no point in trying.

Jim sat with his tea and tried to think: the man had left the chocolates- an obvious sign he had been here- and would probably expect Jim to try to bolt instantly. _In fact he was probably counting on me bolting to get me someplace at a disadvantage and away from witnesses. Therefore if i DO leave i need to do so in a controlled fashion to keep him from following me. Also he demonstrably doesnt want a public assassination...then why the fuck did he just KISS me when …_ Jim glared at the trash can containing the chocolates.

Feeling about equally angry and spooked, Jim very reluctantly curled up on the floor under his coffee table- not feeling up to checking the furniture for traps right now- with a gun at hand and got some sleep.

He woke up remembering JUST how miserable it was to sleep on the floor.

He ALMOST made himself breakfast before remembering just how careful he would have to be…

Jim angrily threw the contents of his refrigerator into a trash bag and took it to the dumpster, and then went to a coffee shop and proceeded to start working on turning the damn tables.

 _You expect me to bolt? By now you must realize I’ll move with a bit more caution…_ Jim checked as much of the dark web as he could without being too obvious: there was no sign that there was a bounty on him, just the usual offers for anyone with information on his network- he’d made a bit of money selling out some unwanted bits… Jim always snickered over the idea of Mycroft paying him for the privilege of taking down targets he didn't want anyway.

One good thing about New York City; even without his established network it hadn't taken him long to find people who didn’t think twice about some guy with a busy schedule hiring them to run errands- even really weird errands- so he already had a brand new network of people to get some of what he needed done. Since what he needed done in this case was moving a few items in and out of his storage lockers and going shopping at a BDSM store? It was down right mundane by local standards.

As an afterthought he contacted the grocery and bought at least the minimum needed replacement food- he’d pick it up later.

Then he started on the false trail for his assassin; the one that looked like he was very carefully leaving town. Once he had booked plane tickets- that he would never use- and booked a hotel room in the arrival city- ditto- and done a few dozen other things that the assassin should be able to track; he went back to the gallery.

Once at the gallery he looked up who had purchased what, and who was on the guest list that he didn't know- especially his primary two potential assassins- and started trying to identify them. No surprise that the Mediterranean looking fellow who bought ‘The Bridge’ traced back to a dead end- a very shallow cover identity. The redhead turned out to be from Boston- so Jim was probably right that he was of Irish descent- and ran an investment company: well, that could certainly be a cover identity. On a whim he looked up the two women: one ran a fitness company in the city- so probably legit- and one ran a travel company- so probably a spy or something.

Jim took a break for lunch and contemplated the perversity of the universe- the fitness instructor was probably the spy and the travel company lady probably was just fit.

Anyway they were both too short… probably.

Mike popped his head in, “we’ve gotten a lot of follow up requests! Always a good sign.”

“Anything in specific?”

“Two people asking to purchase the big canvas by Blair if the buyer doesn't follow through…”

Jim smiled, “always nice- make sure you offer each of them first shot at his new works.”

Mike nodded, “And several people asking about Brandon’s work, and if there were any more works by the collaboration, or the other artist.”

“I’ll… look into it.” Jim nodded and tried very hard not to show any response. 

“Oh,” he added as if it was of no import, “I didn't get a chance to talk to some of the clients- with showing around our prize guest- did you talk to…” he pretended to check the guest list, “Sullivan O’Connor or Salvatore Vinci?”

“Oh, I talked to Sal of course.”

“...of course?”

Mike blinked at him and then shook his head, “Sal Vinci?” he said, “you MUSt have heard of him?”… and Jim suddenly remembered hearing about an art aficionado…

“Oh! Good heavens, Salvinci! I always heard it said like one name and didn't connect it to Salvatore!…” Jim felt like smacking himself. If Salvatore Vinci was ‘Salvinci’ then he was an established art buyer in the city- even if he was an assassin- and the odds that he was the same assassin from London went down immensely.

Mike started laughing, “Oh! Oh dear…”

Jim shook his head slowly and laughed… and then Mike suddenly looked alarmed.

“Are you hurt?”

“What?”

“You… you’re bruised?”

“Oh… um.. Yeah, i didn't put the concealer on,” Jim mentally snarled- he hadn't been able to put on any concealer because the assassin could have poisoned it.

“When did you get hurt?”

“I got mugged the day before our gallery open- on the way home from working out the set up,” Jim sighed, it was close enough to the truth anyway. “I didn't want to have anyone alarmed, so I used some concealer.”

“Do you need a doctor?”

“Nope- not gonna pay that kind of money for a doctor to give me overpriced tylenol.”

“Point.” Mike admitted, “well… maybe you should… go home and rest?”

Jim smiled, because he had gotten everything done he needed to anyway. “Sure… So Sal bought ‘The Bridge’ i remember…”

“He bought three pieces, including that one,” Mike listed two other items- not his.

“And Sullivan O’Connor?”

“He wanted the jacket and dagger piece but someone else got to it first,” Mike nodded, “he ended up buying another of Brandon’s works...also he’s one of the people asking if there-”

“About the collaboration?”

“And any other works by either artist,” Mike nodded, “Several people did.”

Jim got up and got his things, “Well i’ll head home to rest… oh, which piece of Brandon’s did he buy?”

“Time.”

Jim nodded and went out… and very carefully didn't go home. He started moving around the city in a way that would lose any ‘merely good’ assassin, but likely wouldn't lose his guy.

‘Time’ was a piece of art that looked… well, it looked calmer than many- on the face of it- but if you kept looking the details started taking on a bit of menace. It was also quite possibly the most personal piece in the selection: Jim wondered why he wanted that one.

He eventually got to the storage building. At any time of day it was a bit abandoned looking and eerie- after dark it was downright haunted. Given the size of even a luxurious New York City apartment he had needed storage space, and if the assassin was even halfway decent he would know that- might have even been in it before, but Jim didn't keep anything critical in it- normally: he’d had a few boxes moved from one location to another earlier today... his new minions didn’t need to know that there were some very important things tucked in with his ‘winter sweaters’.

Jim got what he’d wanted, came out and closed the sliding door… sure enough the motion activated hallway lights suddenly shut off as soon as he’d fastened the padlock- and the emergency lights failed.

“Going to actually try to kill me this time?” Jim didn't bother trying to see in the dark, just listened. There was a light step- quite a bit too close- and Jim closed his eyes and threw the mini flash bomb.

As he already knew, the man was a pro; Jim only heard him hiss, not scream or yell.

Jim moved, navigating the maze by memory until he got to the SECOND storage locker he owned- the one he had unlocked on the way in and was just closed- he got it open and hit the switch: light poured out into the hallway.

His assassin was already rounding the corner. He was nearly completely covered, but his night vision goggles were worse than useless now and he’d pulled them off: Blue eyes and fair skin showed in the quick glimpse Jim had before the man was FAR too close..

Jim followed his oldest tactic- a dead man can’t hurt you- and went after him with his knife. The assassin had reach and mass on his side, but Jim was fast and mean and most assassins- even good ones- avoided close in fights. His assassin blocked remarkably well, but Jim managed to get the blade past his guard and FELT it hit… not deep enough to be lethal, but that would hurt.

Unfortunately this man knew enough to use his whole body, and getting that shot in on the man’s torso? Left his legs in position for just a beat too long: the assassin managed a sweep and even as Jim twisted and rolled to get back on his feet he was pinned.

“I hadn’t decided yet,” The voice almost purred in Jim’s ear.

“Well, Mister O’Connor,” Jim grunted under his weight, “You should have decided before you got this close.” and Jim swung his off hand- his right hand- back with the injector.

He rolled back- trying to keep from getting the full dose- and that gave Jim the leverage to twist free.

There was a bit of a clatter and scramble and they ended up standing against the walls opposite each other- no more than 6 feet apart- the assassin bleeding and turned slightly away, holding a hand to where Jim must have gotten him with the drug.

“What was it?” he asked: he sounded more curious than alarmed, although he was breathing hard.

Jim named a drug and saw the man shake his head very slightly.

“...You’re not stupid enough to use an injector of something you’re that allergic to…”

Jim smiled, “And only one group of people know that I’m allergic to that.” his smile widened, “You can give the Iceman my regards when he finally gets to hell.” 

The assassin was sliding sideways against the wall, “Don’t I even get a last kiss?”

“After I've asked you a few questions and your corpse has cooled, maybe,” Jim snorted, “I’m not a fool.” In an echo of the assassin’s comment Jim hadn’t decided entirely what to do with him, but getting that close while he was conscious wasn’t high on the list.

The assassin slid down, curled against the wall… and Jim cautiously backed toward the locker for the cuffs he had had delivered. He took his eyes off the man for a fraction of a second as he tried to reach onto a shelf…

That was all it took.

Something blunt struck him in the side and he fell hard into the shelf: by the time he picked himself back up- fast as he was- the man was gone.

Jim put it together in his mind even as he reacted: he’d kicked me- kicked me by pushing off from the floor...strong and flexible…

The damn danger and death junkie that always whispered in the back of his mind thought about that kind of flexibility, and that kind of strength- and that kiss- and WANTED. He shook it off.

There was something small where he had been against the wall? It looked like the injector… but it wasn’t…

_Epinephrine. The damn fucker had given himself Epinephrine… he wasn’t losing consciousness-the epi would have kept him awake at least for a while…_

_Fuck._

Jim carefully cleaned up the traces- including a few russet hairs that confirmed the man’s identity- and limped back out.

_I’m getting too old for this shit._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a pleasure to meet you...

Jim ordered take away but didn't restock his larder; assumed his apartment was unsecured unless he was in it; set up an assortment of traps- just in case- and went back to the day to day business of being James Maighdlin. If Sullivan O’Connor wanted to take him out? He’d have to do it in public. Jim bought new concealer to cover the bruises and carried it in his personal bag, because DAMNED if he was going to be killed with something like his poisoning of Carl Powers: it would be just like the Iceman to order that…

_ But he hadn’t killed me… and if i believe him? He said he hadn’t decided… what the hell is there to decide? You’re either trying to kill someone or you’re not. _

For three days absolutely nothing of interest happened.

Oh, he had a lot of normal business- articles and publicity and reviewing art submissions. He had to meet, charm, and reel in a few more big time art sponsors- which compared to handling international criminal business was shockingly easy. The profit margin on paint and mixed media- properly managed- was incredible. The down side was dealing with the artists: apparently most artists were at best eccentric, and otherwise outright insane- which… made an odd sense of ‘art therapy’ he supposed. He was beginning to be DEARLY grateful for the occasional professional artist who was MERELY a bit neurotic and faintly insecure.

He ended up talking about that with Mike over lunch and found out how few artists had any business sense at all, and that what set ‘Brandon’ apart was the fact that he (apparently) admitted he was in need of therapy. Jim spent quite a few hours that night glaring at canvas while arguing with himself over whether he actually needed ‘therapy’ or just a creative outlet.

With some reluctance he was coming to the conclusion that he MIGHT actually need to finish reading those art therapy books he’d purchased when he started this. It was true that actually creating PHYSICAL art- as opposed to an artistic crime, or an artistically rendered fake identity- had some… benefits.

“I’m not CRAZY,” he grumbled at the raven painting- in his more humorous moments he called it Sherlock- “not really!”

Later that same night when he was up after a nightmare drinking tea, cursing Britain in general and Mycroft Holmes in specific, and painting- while ranting at the raven painting- he had to admit that he was probably not exactly ‘sane’ either...

One of the aggravating parts of ‘normal business’ after the gallery show was the number of people asking after Brandon, his art, his unnamed collaborator, and/or another collaborative work. He was beginning to be tempted to throw two injectors into a pool of red paint and call it ‘storage locker’ just to make them shut up! He had JUST hung up with a client after promising to “ask about another collaborative work”, when Mike walked in… with Sullivan O’Connor.

Jim valiantly resisted the urge to throw desk accessories at the man. “Mister… O’ Connor, what can i do for you?”

It was the first time he’d had an opportunity to see him in - well, not daylight, but office lighting anyway- and… frankly? The man was almost insultingly good looking. Oh there were those same sharp blue eyes from hunting him at the storage unit, the same dark ginger hair he’d spotted at the gallery opening; but now he was getting a look at the whole package, and it came complete with a soft leather jacket, a crooked grin, a faint scar on the side of his face that just made him look more rakish and attractive and smile crinkles.

_ Damn it. _

“Well,” he said-and God damn it there was a trace of that purr in his voice that Jim remembered from their last...whatever- “I thought i might offer to take you to lunch somewhere.”

Mike, curse him, was standing there looking…  _ oh god he thought he was matchmaking, didn’t he? _

Jim wanted to say something else, but with a witness he had to keep it vague, “Well, I’ve been eating out a lot since i had to have my apartment exterminated... I’m a bit tired of it.”

He blinked once and then smirked- and Jim wanted to wipe that smirk off his face SO badly- and then he asked, “Do you like Thai? Because there’s a lovely Thai place just a couple blocks away…”

Jim hadn’t eaten there, yet, but he knew the place he meant- and every foot of space between there and here was witnessed enough to be… difficult to get away with anything, especially if Mike knew who he was with...

“Sure, why not. Can you wait out in the gallery for a minute? I need to make a few notes.”

The fellow just nodded and one corner of his mouth quirked up and he asked Mike to show him some of the new works and they went out.

Jim stared at the door for a second or two and then wrote out instructions in case anything happened to him while he was out with Mister O’Connor… and then he grabbed a post it note and wrote “you are an idjit and need way more therapy.” and stuck it in the middle of his desk.

He grabbed his jacket, a few extra weapons, and some extra cash, and went out.

…

They were walking along the typically crowded streets- with Jim beginning to realize that a crowd did NOT always mean witnesses in this city- when O’Connor casually said, “You were right, by the way.”

“I usually am,” Jim answered by reflex, and then asked suspiciously, “about what?”

He ducked his head just a bit and gave him a very sly smile that absolutely WAS NOT making Jim think very nasty dirty things, and said, “I should have made up my mind before i got that close… but then… I think i made up my mind back at the gallery and didn't realize it.”

They got to the restaurant before Jim could figure out what to say about that- in public anyway.

...

O’Connor apparently knew some of the wait staff? In any event they had a nice booth in a back corner: private enough to be able to talk quietly, but still public enough to make a murder a bit unlikely.

“So… i have to admit i didn’t expect you to walk in and invite me to lunch…”

His mouth curled up- it reminded Jim of a cat somehow- “Well, you know… the unexpected is always the way to go…” and then he frowned, reached out, and took Jim’s hand.

He’d done it so casually that Jim didn't even react to the potential threat until he was turning Jim’s hand over to look at his wrist. Jim pulled his hand back. “Problem, Mister O’Connor?”

In a softer sounding voice, he said, “Hadn’t realized your wrists got that badly hurt…”

“All of me got rather badly hurt,” Jim made a show of looking at the menu while trying to make sense of this. “That was, i believe, the point.”

He sighed rather heavily- although it sounded genuine-, “The point, actually, was… I’m not even sure what it was, other than proving a point, maybe?” he looked over and locked eyes with Jim, “You’d become something of an obsession…”

_ Yeah, I GOT that impression…  _ “I’m not usually an obsession for an assassin- that's usually just a job, unless it's personal; and i’d remember if I’d ever met you.”

That flash of a cocky smirk, “Would you?”

Jim’s temper flared, “Wouldn't you remember meeting ME?”

“I remember you leading me a merry chase around London…” he looked downright nostalgic.

Jim fortunately had an excuse to bite his tongue while the waiter took their order.

Once he left O’Connor shrugged, “Sorry about your wrists, I wasn't aiming to do that kind of damage- just trying to hold onto you.”

“And I was trying to breathe- breathing being somewhat important to me,” Jim raised an eyebrow, “You don't seem much the worse for wear despite my best attempts.”

He chuckled, “Actually? You cracked one of my ribs that first night I’m pretty sure, and you’re wicked fast with a blade.”

Jim blinked at the admission, and then processed his turn of phrase… “are you actually from Boston? Because you… you really do sound a bit like you are?”

“Spent a lot of my youth there, so… yes? My mom was American.” he shrugged. “Incidentally, what WAS in that injector because i was sick as hell.”

“I’m not even remotely sorry,” Jim considered for a moment and then told him.

“Figures…” he looked annoyed for a moment and then sipped at his water, “Well, thanks for not killing me?” and then muttered, “even if i kind of wished you had for a day there.”

“I wanted to find out why you hadn't killed ME, and also to verify if you were working for the Iceman and if so… why…” he waved a hand vaguely, “it didn't make sense- doesn't make sense.”

“The Iceman… heh. Cute. Yeah, I used to.”

“Used to?”

“Bastard fired me: to be specific, first he put another man on the job who interfered in my job- which is why you didn't die the last time- and then he fired me for failing.”

Jim’s mind raced back to that last direct attempt, and…  _ yes? That could have been someone else interfering, not just a close miss… _

“So… that wasn't you with all the ‘accidents’ after that? And… if he fired you, what the HELL are you doing HERE?”

“The last attempt I made on you in England was the one where the other fellow interfered,” he looked thoughtful, “I got a bit upset about that- and also didn't know he was working for the same side, sort of- and damaged him a bit, so… i have no idea who went after you after that, but it might not have been him.” 

The discussion was interrupted by food arriving and then honestly by the food, which was extremely good.

“So why are you trying to kill me here?” Jim finally asked between courses, “Or whatever you’re doing, and… how much will it cost me to keep you from reporting it, since i doubt you have yet: not enough CIA sniffing around.”

He looked startled, “report? Like i would tell that-” he took a sip of his water and a few breaths before continuing, “No, that makes sense that you’d think that. I just… it's not so much that i didn’t believe you were dead, i suppose as i didn’t WANT to believe you were dead? As silly as it is to admit to it, this is on my own time.”

Jim turned this over in his head-  _ the professional attack, followed by not killing me; the successful stalk and near capture, followed by him admitting he didn't know if he WANTED to kill me...obsession…it really would be safer to kill him... _

Jim poked at the remains of his food slowly, “Well, i have some personal experience with obsessions… but they don't tend to be healthy for the obsessed- and i like breathing, as i said.”

“I really don’t want to kill you...i think i thought i did? Just to prove myself… but…” he grinned, “You were always fascinating- at first i was just determined to win.”

Jim couldn't stop the laugh, “oh i know THAT one all too well.”

“I suppose i had myself half convinced i was hunting for any trace of you being alive to prove… prove him wrong? Win?” he shrugged, “I wasn’t doing well getting fired.”

Jim gave him an arch look. “Have you considered art therapy that DOESN'T involve pinning my wrists to a wall?” 

A very predatory grin flashed across his face, “Considered a few things that involve pinning your wrists in a different way…”

Jim sat back and considered the man- and told his libido to shut the hell up- “I had gotten that impression, but why the hell would i trust you that far?”  _ You’d damn straight be useful if i could turn this to my advantage… _

_ And he’s sexy… _

_ Shut up. _

He put forward pleasantly,“I haven’t killed you yet?”

“Your concept of safewords needs a lot of work.” Jim waved a fork at the man, “Seriously, why should I trust you?” Jim mentally glared at his attraction to the man until it shut up again.

He tilted his head and licked at his lip, “Got any bright ideas? Because...i spent quite a bit of time trying to kill you, and then quite a bit of time obsessing over trying to find you- even though you were dead and autopsied and ash- and now i HAVE found you and…”

“And?”

“I honestly don't think i could walk away...so given that you’re stuck with me, i suppose we either need to work this out, or kill each other.” He sat back with a broad grin, “either could be fun, but…”

Jim brought a hand up to rub at his face and caught the unhappy look O’Connor gave his wrist. “I’ve spent the last few days unable to sleep in a comfortable bed- even though i am badly bruised- unable to keep food in my own apartment, and trying to figure out how badly i need to disappear...while a very competent assassin is behaving in an unpredictable but definitely dangerous fashion.” he looked firmly at the man, “None of which puts me in a great mood.”

He had stopped smiling, at least and looked a bit sad and a bit thoughtful, “I really would prefer not to kill you, but to be honest i would prefer not to die either…” that grin flashed over his face, “And you’re extremely attractive: i never failed to kill a target before.”

“How the hell did you end up working for the Iceman, anyway, “ Jim muttered- not really expecting an answer.

“Got discharged from the military and the SIS picked me up,” He shrugged. “Better pay, better hours, and spend a lot more time able to be back in my own bed… it was… it was good until it wasn’t.”

Jim looked thoughtful at him. “Alright, let's take a first step toward not killing each other: your cover identity is very good, but it is a cover identity; what’s your real name?”

“Sebastian Moran,” The man extended a hand politely, “John Sebastian Augustus Moran- formerly of the First Bangalore Pioneers: a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Background checks and a lunch date.  
> (CW discussion of allergies.)

Jim sat back from reading the file on ‘Sullivan O’Connor’ aka Sebastian Moran and dearly wished he had something stronger than tea in his apartment. They had parted ways with an agreement to leave each other alone - each knowing that it was something of a test of trust- before meeting again the day after tomorrow to… discuss things.

Naturally Jim looked him up.

The basics were easy. To Jim’s surprise the man was in the peerage: child of an American mother and an English lord. The details of the divorce were pretty well sealed, but what Jim could find looked messy. His father got primary custody- no surprise in an English court- and his mother had returned to Boston; so that explained why he had spent some of his time in America- Boston in specific. He had attended Eton and Oxford and gone into the military… and then his records stopped being easily accessible.

It had taken until after lunch the next day to get any of his military records.

Jim took a break from work, got a cup of tea, and sat down with the records: he put the cup of tea down when his hand started shaking.  _ Holmes sent THAT walking nightmare after me? Bloody miracle I survived. _ Thank any power that was involved- whether luck, angels, faeries or demons- that Mycroft apparently didn't know how to handle the man when things went badly.

Jim sat and tried to think: Colonel Moran’s available dossier-there simply wasn’t enough time to dig through all the classified levels for more- showed a nearly perfect killing machine, but for some (redacted) reason they discharged him. He could only get the barest GLOSS of his work for Mycroft, but what he could see looked… equally terrifying, and for some reason- when he didn't succeed immediately- he’d had him discharged.

For that matter, given the usual issues with black ops work? Jim would expect that they had tried to kill the man as a security precaution- and he’d survived.

“The sensible thing to do would be to shoot him- assuming anyone could shoot him.” Jim commented idly to the raven painting.

After a few minutes of thinking Jim got up and started pacing slowly. “He’s somehow gotten obsessed with me, why? Because he couldn't kill me before? Then you would think he would have killed me when he could have…” Jim leaned on the window and looked out… and caught the reflection of his wrist in the view…

“He didn't like that I was hurt, though,” Jim went over his expressions, the small tells, what Moran had said…

_ He’s adrift. He didn't cope well with being fired- probably didn't cope well with being discharged before that- and he locked onto me: it was a way to prove himself right, he said. _

JIm got out his paints and a canvas and started working while he thought.  _ Being in the SIS was great until it wasn’t- until he failed, or they lost faith in him. He probably was one of those men who felt like they always had something to prove…going along with that messy divorce between his parents... _

Jim considered carefully:  _ a man with a desperate need to have structure- have orders- who was that GOOD at what he did? But his commander had undermined him and then blamed him for it- more likely fired him for complaining about it… _

Jim let himself chew on the problem as he developed layers of color and shadows. When he finally went to sleep that night he let himself sleep in his bed.

…

Watching former Colonel Moran’s eyes widen and stance shift when he came in told Jim in an instant that he had chosen the right tactic. He wasn’t quite dressed as Moriarty, but close, in a far more formal suit with a far sharper cut than he usually wore- the accessories just added to the impact of course,

“Mister O’Connor,” Jim walked into the gallery and took off his sunglasses, “Your file makes for fascinating reading.”

“Does it? Ah… you look… rested…”

“Lunch meetings always lose something without lunch,” Jim tilted his head toward the door and the waiting limo, “I made reservations…”

“Ah…” the hesitation was genuine, but there was something rather awkward about it- not as simple as if he was afraid of being taken out and shot…

“Problem?”

“That depends on where we are going, frankly,” he looked distinctly unhappy and then quietly added, “there’s a reason i carry an epi pen these days: i have lethal allergies too.”

THAT had been nowhere in his files and Jim froze for a moment. More carefully, he said, “I made reservations at a very high end steak place…” he went over the food they had eaten at the Thai place- _ well, he wasn't allergic to seafood, that's for sure. _

He sighed and started moving toward the limo, “Probably fine, but i’ll have to talk to the chef.”

“I can sympathize with the allergies- as you seem to be aware.”

Regaining a bit of his cocksure attitude he smiled and held the door of the limo for Jim. After they were seated he shrugged and said, “You didn’t like me knowing about your allergies…”

“i get allergy treatments, and it… helps- a little.” Jim nodded slowly, “But no, I wasn't happy that you knew- it's an unacceptable level of risk.”

Sullivan- Sebastian- nodded and his eyes looked sad for a moment, “Limits a lot.”

…

Jim didn’t like the way the host breezily assured them that everything could be managed, and, overruling Sebastian’s hesitant objections, insisted on speaking to either the manager or the head chef before being seated. After being assured that there ‘was no problem at all’ one more time Jim lost his patience.

Jim shed his polite rich art gallery owner skin and ‘smiled’ at the man. “Really? You’re volunteering to take on the full legal and monetary risk all by yourself? I’ll need that in writing and i want to see your identification: i’m sure there must be a lawyer and a notary on the premises.”

The host hesitated; his assassin had slid seamlessly into ‘on the job’ body language; and at least three other customers, who were probably lawyers, looked up as though they could already smell the lawsuit.

Jim waited: the host slunk off to go find someone.

A chef came out AND a manager came out. The manager was frowning at them as though they didn't match whatever he’d been told the problem was. “Yes, gentlemen?”

Jim blandly stated, “My business associate and i both have lethal allergies, and were trying to verify IF we could eat here safely: your host wasn’t taking it seriously.” he raised an eyebrow at the manager, “He was assuring us both- without even taking down the allergies- that we would be ‘completely fine’. Funny how when the word ‘legally responsible’ gets thrown in it's more serious than ‘could kill me’, don’t you think?”

The manager was developing that fixed smile that said he was very carefully trying to extract everyone from the pile of shit and asked, “What are you allergic to? While i am certain we can arrange something; yes, we do need to be careful.”

“In my case?” Jim nodded at the chef, “penicillin is the only thing likely to be in the food: blue cheese, in any amount.”

The chef looked very unhappy, “We do have a number of dishes with that ingredient, although we try to be careful about cross contamination.”

Sebastian closed his eyes and sighed faintly, “Lethal allergy to latex- if you use any latex food handling gloves i can’t eat here- and that crosses over to avocado.” After a moment’s pause he added, “I’m sensitive to sesame and prefer to avoid it.”

_ Latex allergy? _ Jim internally boggled while maintaining his ‘i keep a lawyer on speed dial’ expression.  _ Latex was in...so much… military gear… Oh. No wonder they discharged him. Avocado too? Yeeesss,  _ Jim remembered reading that there was a high likelihood of that allergy with a latex allergy-  _ and that was in a lot of foods… Sesame? But how? It was in most Thai food…  _ Jim hesitated and thought back over the menu and the meal: _ no sesame. They cooked a very regional and traditional Thai cuisine, and he’d known the wait staff- he knew he could safely eat there. _

The manager pulled the chef aside and they had a hurried discussion, after a bit the chef came back. “Gentlemen? While i think we can do it...i have to admit i hadn't considered avocado as something to be concerned about with cross contamination: i would be very pleased to cook for you, but… I think it would be safer if I went over the kitchen arrangements and double checked everything.”

Jim nodded, “Then perhaps we could transfer our reservations for a future date. If i recall correctly avocado often crosses over to latex allergies...so you may want to make those adjustments in any case.” Jim politely reminded the manager of the fact that the host had very nearly seated them, and steered Sebastian out.

Once they were back in the limo Jim grumbled, “waste of a good suit to go to most other places I know we can both eat.”

“You were… incredible.” The purring rumble was back in his voice full force.

Jim couldn't help but smile faintly, “because I don't let idiots poison me or my guest casually?”

“That and… “ he smiled and shook his head, “watching your whole affect change.”

Jim glanced over and flashed one of his sharper smiles at the man. “So… what shall we do for lunch, Mister Moran?”

“I know a number of places in the city i can eat safely...or… you could tell the driver to stop at a market and then go back to your place: you have a decent kitchen and i can cook.”

“Can you now?”

“Yes.” Sebastian flashed that crooked grin, “Although it might still be a waste of that suit.”

Jim rolled the dice in his head and took a chance. “Tell the driver one of the better places you know you can eat… and if things go well? You can cook us dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as someone with food allergies (not these ones) who has numerous friends with food allergies and sensitivities... restaurant people blowing this off should be tagged and prohibited from working in food service ever again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dinner, very difficult conversations, and the end of the beginning

Lunch...went very well.

Oh the suit was wasted on the place- it was far too casual for it- but the food was good. Sebastian flirted- sometimes deliberately and sometimes just by having his eyes crinkle adorably when he smiled- and he could carry his side of the conversation. There wasn't nearly enough privacy to talk about security issues or past history, but they had a lovely discussion of art, and a bit about marketing, and a lot about idiots and allergies.

“There are times, “ Jim said quietly as they left the restaurant, “That I regret losing so much of my network, but if I still had all of it I would have had that last fellow killed, and that would draw attention, so best avoided I suppose.”

Sebastian leaned in to his ear and said quietly, “If I killed everyone who was a jackass about allergies there would be damn few places left to eat.”

Jim smirked, “but they would be BETTER places to eat…”

They were both laughing as they got into the limo.

When Jim told the driver to take them to the market, Sebastian’s apparently typical smile broadened and he asked if there was anything Jim especially wanted for dinner?

Jim considered censoring his reply and then decided to just say it. “I’ll leave the main course at your discretion…” and he mirrored the man’s cocky smirk back at him, “But I reserve the right to make all the calls on dessert.”

Sebastian- poor lamb- tried to make a predatory double entendre out of some food choices at him: he apparently had not been briefed by Mycroft that Jim had a near mastery in the art. By the time they pulled up at the market Sebastian was a bit slow to get out of the limo, and clearly trying to think cold thoughts before his pants strangled him.

Jim had the driver make a stop at the storage unit to pick up a box or two, and then back to his apartment. He tipped the driver heavily and let Sebastian carry in all the groceries- he had apparently purchased more than could be needed for dinner, breakfast, and a few more dinners…

“I don't eat that much,” Jim said as he unlocked the door. “Oh, and hold on while I disarm a few things.”

Sebastian watched curiously while Jim took down a few of the extra alarms- mostly things that would alert him if anyone had come in. “You were actually not sleeping in your bed? Why? Your bedroom has a lousy sniper vantage…”

“Because searching a bed for traps every night doesn't make me feel very restful?” Jim shrugged, “Last night I took a chance on it.”

He looked a bit guilty.

As he was putting things away in the kitchen, “I tried to replace the basics.”

Jim nodded and started to make tea and stopped… “First of all, tea or coffee? And secondly… Do I need to worry about anything in my kitchen? I never considered a latex allergy…”

“I bought replacement measuring utensils- yours are suspect- and a few odds and ends just to be safe.” he grinned as he tied on a brand new apron that said ‘Fuck the Cook’ on it in fancy script. “And I would love a good cup of tea, although I like coffee.”

Jim snickered at the apron. “I’ll go clean up the paints- they’re safe, right? Even though I use acrylics…”

“Yup, purely synthetic latex-not an issue.” Sebastian was getting out supplies and washing everything. 

Jim put the paints away and made sure the table was cleared of his work, and then made them two cups of tea. While the tea was steeping he changed into something a bit more casual, but made a point of staying in more authoritative coloring.

...

It was interesting watching the man cook. He moved with a certainty and grace that Jim could identify partly as a deep familiarity with his tools, but also the trained precision that his military profile depicted. Jim could cook- he could even do a good job of it- but Sebastian clearly felt at home cooking: he didn't look stressed or even as if he was concentrating- he looked relaxed.

As he put a tray of something into the oven he smiled at Jim, and as he was cleaning the prep area he asked, “Is it that fascinating watching me cook?”

“Yes, actually: it's very zen.”

“Zen?” Sebastian looked pleased, if puzzled, and accepted the second cup of tea Jim handed him.

“You look at ease even though you’re doing precise work,” Jim shrugged, “It's like watching one of my old snipers disassemble and clean a rifle.”

He laughed and smiled over his tea, “Okay…”

They sat down while everything was cooking and Jim tried to figure out how this was going to work, how he would fit into his plans- because he was… eerily comfortable. Once you knew he wasn't going to attack you it was- it was like he just FIT there.

“Unspoken assumptions have gotten me in a lot of trouble before,” Jim commented, “So before things get too comfortable I suspect we should work this out a bit.”

“Unspoken assumptions?”

“I REALLY dislike being backed into a corner- figuratively or literally, and that goes triple for sex.” he watched Sebastian carefully and asked, “Why did you kiss me and not kill me?”

Sebastian looked startled and then slowly put his cup down, “I suppose I wasn't really… thinking that far? I found you and I was wondering what the hell I was going to do even as I got prepped to take you down at the gallery.” he looked thoughtful and a bit puzzled, '' I hadn't PLANNED on kissing you: I don’t think I even realized I wanted to until… until I had to make the decision to kill you or not. It was when I realized I WAS kissing you that I ran… I didn't know how to- I didn't know what to do from there?”

Jim nodded slowly, _that made sense: he had run because HE didn't know how to react, not because of the alarm._ “I couldn't figure out why you had left me alive- why you had left me pinned to the wall for that matter.”

A flash of that grin, “Well… you looked good there- I think the art looked better when you were in it…”

Jim snorted. “I still don’t believe that it sold.”

“I still don't believe you put it on display!”

“Mike called me the next day and told me he loved the ‘new installation’ but it didn't go with the other works.”

“Is… is that why you suddenly had all your other work on display?”

“Mmm-Hmm. Do you know how many calls i’ve gotten asking if there will be more ‘collaborative works’?”

“...no… really?! The other guy-Mike?- said something about that but… seriously?!”

“Yes, seriously.” 

As tempting as the distraction was, Jim put his tea cup down, pushed it out of the way, and looked at Sebastian pointedly, “But to get back to the original topic: Nearly killing me and then kissing me, and then pinning me under you at the storage locker...lets just say I have reason to be concerned that you might have wanted to do something other than JUST kill me.”

Sebastian closed his eyes and looked unhappy, “I… wanted to do something… but... I’ve never forced myself on anyone- I might have done some dumb things involving drink, and i’m no angel, but I hope to God I never go so far over the line as to do that.”

“That line was right under me- I got far too good a look at it.”

“I… It never occurred to me you would think that: I mean, I knew you would be worried about my killing you....”

Jim looked at him levelly until he looked away.

“I guess I should go…” he started to get up.

“Sit your ass back down,” Jim used the casual command voice that he’d found worked VERY well on ex military contractors- Sebastian was no exception: he sat back down.

“As I said; unspoken assumptions.” Jim took a deep breath, “It will take me… awhile, before the rather visceral reaction to almost dying stops being associated with that room in the gallery, you behind me, and quite probably several other things. The more immediate matter is that we obviously both find each other attractive, but we met… a bit too close to that line for comfort, shall we say.”

Sebastian actually held both of his hands up, “You just ended up under me at the storage unit because I was trying to get the knife out of your hands- I wasn't even aiming for that!”

Jim shrugged, “That? Probably… doesn’t change the impact.”

“...but… you… DON’T want me to leave?” he asked very cautiously.

“If I wanted you to leave, I never would have invited you in.” Jim sighed, “As I said: I find you attractive, but I also have issues with you…” Jim shook his head faintly, “Getting to know you a bit better helped- even reading what I could get of your background.”

“Most of what I know about you was from the briefing, and… what I saw.” that smile flickered across his face. “And you driving me up the wall by outfoxing me every time.”

“I expect the briefing told you I had been in interrogation?”

“Yes?”

Jim waved at one of the pieces of artwork on his wall, “Art therapy- I have pretty bad PTSD from that- not JUST from that.”

“I’d been told you...didn’t care? You apparently drove a bunch of interrogators half mad…”

“I drove YOU a bit mad- doesnt mean I didn't care about being killed,” Jim snorted. “Never let them see you sweat.” Jim stared at that piece of art and sighed, “Honestly though, interrogation was a walk in the park after my childhood, but that doesn't mean I liked it.” he shrugged and looked back at Sebastian. “I think I like you- which is very odd, and probably says more about my needing therapy than the art does-and I THINK we could make it work…”

Sebastian looked stunned and started looking a bit cautiously hopeful.

“But for a lot of different reasons I need you to be… very careful of my consent.” Jim tilted his head and nodded in the direction of the bedroom, “And if we end up following up on ANY of the suggestions about dessert? I’m going to have to be the one making the decisions for a while.”

“I…” whatever he was about to say he changed his mind and just nodded, “fair.”

“So… unspoken assumptions: Yes, I’m gay- more or less, I actually find most people unutterably boring and don't bother; Yes, I may have an unhealthy habit of being attracted to exceedingly dangerous things- including you; and Yes, I would be interested in you POTENTIALLY sticking around long term, as long as you don't hold any loyalty, or pass any information, to my enemies. What about your assumptions?”

Sebastian blinked several times, “Can I think over what I need to say while I do some kitchen work?”

Jim nodded and he damn near ran into the kitchen.

He came out cautiously some time later and said something about dinner in fifteen minutes: Jim waved at the chair and he sat back down.

“Assumptions?”

He dragged a hand through his hair. “Hell I don't even know where to start!”

“Do you want to have a… personal relationship?”

Sebastian relaxed just a bit, “oh! Ah… yeah, assumptions: yes. Yes i would- even if i didn't know that to start with.”

“Does that involve sex?”

Sebastian grinned, “I certainly hope so! Err… I’m bi- or pan, depending on which term you like… and developing latex allergies put a severe crimp in my lifestyle, so I've practically been a monk for the last while.”

“I’ve been tested more than twice since the last time i bothered- you?”

He tilted his head quizzically, “You know I didn't ask if that last blood test tested for that?…Well, I’ve had at least one blood test since the last time- maybe two.”

“Do you have any expectation of being able to deal with Mycroft-” Jim cut off when he saw the look on the man’s face.

“I personally hope i never see him again,” Sebastian almost growled, “But i’m certainly not doing him any favors.”

“Would you mind working for me? I’ve never really tried to mix a relationship with snipers or anything- i joked about it and teased people with it, but never did it- it just seems a waste to not use those skills…” Jim shrugged, “It’s alright if the answer is no; it wouldn't be that frequent anyway- I’m semi-retired.”

“I… actually love the work, usually,” he said it quietly, “You were just… an exception.”

Jim smirked, “Well, I’m exceptional. Let's leave it there for right now, but if you think of any other assumptions that might need to be checked? Ask.”

Sebastian nodded and went into the kitchen…

And shortly after that a dinner was on the table that Jim would have paid VERY good money for in any restaurant…

And it wasn't long before they were teasing each other over the table, and arguing about weapons, and…

Jim ended up just sitting there listening to Sebastian go ON about the fine points of some ammunition, while eating the dessert that the man had made, and thinking: _how the hell did I manage without this?_

“-pay for it in range of course…” he trailed off and looked curiously at Jim, “Ah… have i been going on a bit much?”

“No, it's important for work- kind of interesting to listen to, too: i didn't know some of that.”

“You were smiling but…”

“Well… I’m very odd, Sebastian: you’ll have to learn to cope with that.”

He grinned, “I kind of like your version of ‘odd’- besides, I have it on good authority that I’m a bit odd too.”

“Well, better we found each other than tried to train some poor ~ordinary~ person to put up with us, hmm?”

“Yeah,” Sebastian cocked his head, “So you...said I better be careful about those unspoken assumptions.”

“They can bite you. Yes?”

“Am i heading out for tonight or staying here?”

JIm got up and stretched, Sebastian got up and looked appreciative. Jim walked up and put a hand on the man’s chest, “So...can you behave?”

“Usually I’d say ‘apparently not’, but I’m going to try.”

“Then it's a good thing I have an oversized apartment- for New York City anyway- since you’re moving in.”

Sebastian looked utterly delighted and very cautiously put his arms around Jim, “I guess we have a lot to discuss, but ah… right now i just want to carry you to the bedroom and-”

Jim raised an eyebrow, “Do whatever I say, at least for tonight?”

“... sure, i was going to say that.” Sebastian nodded solemnly.

“Of course you were.” Jim snorted but couldn't really work up a good ‘mad’ at him at all. “And then we can start working on that collaborative art piece.”

“Planning on pinning me to the wall?”

“Nah, you're too tall- wondering about shooting at you with paintballs while you tried to duck, though.”

Sebastian laughed, “That sounds like fun, actually.”

Jim walked into the bedroom, “if that's your idea of fun…”

“Yeah?”

“We’ll get along fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the explicit part will continue in the next story in the "work of Art" series, so if you like it rated PG stop here, otherwise read the "epilogue' to this story.  
> After that i may pick up the story line and continue it as Jim and Sebastian do some collaborative artwork and deal with ongoing canon events.  
> thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> https://fabricdragondesigns.tumblr.com/post/624274388223688704/inspiration-for-a-fanfic-mormor-of-course?fbclid=IwAR3pPWUFGGRrYKdD0O6xCXK7K8K4hUh1Ig6ZG4KxtQMQ6s5NHU_kF4zE-0Y  
> The "work of art" tumblr prompt that started this.
> 
> SpeculativeCorvid's work is excellent, and added to the inspiration. In fact, you can spot elements of their work throughout form the first chapter to the very last.
> 
> (This is now being structured as a series, so please subscribe to recieve notice of when it continues.)


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